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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245844">A Life Forgotten</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayandKnight/pseuds/DayandKnight'>DayandKnight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Angst, Eventual Fluff, F/M, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:47:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayandKnight/pseuds/DayandKnight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Hello, Suhail.” She smiles, though she looks as though she’s on the verge of tears, and he stares. She’s petite and pale, with bright blue eyes and golden blonde hair. “How are you?” </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“No.” Both the doctor and the woman frown at him. He may not be able to remember his own name, but there’s one thing of which he’s absolutely certain. “I am not married to an Amestrian whore!”</i>
</p>
<p>A car accident turns Scar's life upside-down, or at least he thinks it does. Olivier Armstrong swears she's his wife and that they have a life together, but how is he supposed to trust her when he can't remember anything?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Buccaneer/Miles (Fullmetal Alchemist), Olivier Mira Armstrong/Scar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Impossible</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/gifts">Illidria</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Remember when I was like "just because I finished a fic, doesn't mean I should start a new one?" and you were all "write what you want!"? This is your fault. ;)</p>
<p>For the record, this fic contains an unrealistic depiction of Amnesia. Hopefully the story makes up for the fact I sacrificed realism for the plot. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Would you like to see your wife now, Sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs at the doctor whose name he has already forgotten. He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but then, he can’t remember his own name either. All he remembers is a paramedic shining a light in his eyes, asking him questions about the date and then his name, before abandoning questions altogether to remove him from the smashed up car and load him into an ambulance. It had been more of the same once he arrived at the hospital, only with more tests and poking and prodding, mumbling about retrograde amnesia. Someone had gotten his identification out of his wallet and come by to tell him he had a wife--which he guesses is the reason for the silver band on his left hand--and that she was on her way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the doctor speaking to someone quietly in the doorway, “-have to prepare yourself, he probably won’t recognize you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, here you are then.” The doctor steps out of the way and the woman takes a step into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Suhail.” She smiles, though she looks as though she’s on the verge of tears, and he stares. She’s petite and pale, with bright blue eyes and golden blonde hair. “How are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Both the doctor and the woman frown at him. He may not be able to remember his own name, but there’s one thing of which he’s absolutely certain. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> married to an Amestrian whore!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor visibly flinches. “Now, Sir, there’s no need for that kind of language, I’m sure!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” the woman is remarkably calm as she makes her way further into the room, “I know you’re confused right now-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not confused.” He scowls at her. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we are not married. I don’t even know you. I would never-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name’s Olivier, and you’ve just forgotten me. That doesn’t mean we aren’t married.” He shakes his head violently. “It’s alright, Suhail-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” he growls, “call me </span>
  <em>
    <span>Suhail.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do not know you and we are not married.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, she looks taken aback. “I know you can’t remember, but you have to believe-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She draws a deep breath. “How can I prove it to you?” He remains silent and she thinks for a moment. “I’ll go back to the house and get our marriage license and some photos. Will that persuade you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his face away and hears her sigh, the doctor quietly showing her out. His head throbs and he leans back into the hospital pillows, touching the bandage around his head. He can’t think of a single reason for this woman to carry out such a farce, but he’s certain he would never marry an Amestrian. It won’t matter what documents or photos she can produce, those are all easy enough to fake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> A hospital worker brings him a tray of unappetizing cafeteria food and he ignores it, picking at the new wristband they’ve put on him instead. Olivier had given the doctors more information to put on his records, though he doubts any of it is true. The only thing that stands out to him as vaguely familiar is his name: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Suhail.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He knows, though he doesn’t know how, that his name is personal, sacred. It had rankled somehow, to hear it spilling from the Amestrian’s full lips; something that hadn’t belonged to her, hadn’t been for her to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels a hand on his arm and jerks out of a sleep he wasn’t aware of falling into. “What do you want?” he snaps when he sees that the Amestrian is back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have those photos and the marriage license to show you.” She’s holding out an envelope and he snatches it from her, opening it carelessly and dumping the contents onto his lap. He glances at the marriage license, but it doesn’t tell him anything new or prove anything to him. The photos look nice, but they’re easy enough to doctor. He holds up a wedding photo that, as far as he can tell, does show himself and this Olivier smiling at each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this helping?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “When was this taken?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three years ago, in July.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at the photo again and then back at her, critically. “You were thinner then.” Her brows go up, but she bites back whatever her response was going to be and he drops the photo onto the floor.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that was uncalled for.” She picks it up, looking more frustrated, and takes back the other photos, tucking them slowly back into the envelope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did those help?” The doctor is back in the doorway, clipboard in hand, and a fakely optimistic smile on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Olivier turns to the doctor, “what do we do now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’ll have to keep him overnight for observation, and then tomorrow we’ll get you all set up with a neurologist.” He smiles brightly. “If all goes well, you’ll be going home tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not going with her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor falters again, “well, that is your prerogative. But, in the state you’re in, we can’t just put you out into the street. If you would rather not go with your wife tomorrow we can get you a social worker, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It’ll be better to get back to your house and life as soon as possible.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A social worker? Why?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor glances at him, but addresses himself to Olivier. “You have to understand, a person with his, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>history</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you looking at me for? He’s the one who asked.” She sounds as though she’s used to making this kind of sharp response, which surprises him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what it is that makes you so nervous, even if I have a ‘history’ I certainly can’t remember it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s part of it,” the doctor almost looks relieved, “people with this type of amnesia can often behave erratically, even if you wouldn’t harm someone else, you could well pose a danger to yourself, and it would simply be unethical to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As if you care what happens to me.” His brain may resemble scrambled eggs at this point, but he sure as hell can remember the animosity he feels toward Amestrians, and they toward him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the same, those really are your choices: her or the social worker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He groans. A social worker would mean shelters and questions and limited freedom. She, on the other hand, might be some kind of lying whore, but she seems easy enough to slip away from. He can go with her, try to work out her motives for a day or two, and once her guard is down can be gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll go with her. But, I don’t want to see her right now, can’t you make her leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no matter. I’ll go home again.” Her sentences are brisk and clipped, as though she’s holding back some other emotion. He has to admit, it’s a good performance. “I’ll just see if I can find something else to jog your memory.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor follows her out, “-something other than static images, maybe? Video can go a long way, but really your best hope is getting him home and-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scar listens to their footsteps fade away and lies back again, formulating a plan. He knows--though he doesn’t know how--that he can live rough. Even so, he’ll see if she has a coffee can of cash anywhere to help him on his way. And then he’ll simply disappear and leave her to work out her schemes on some other poor soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of his time in the hospital is spent mostly sleeping and having his memory tested. He’s poked and prodded more, subjected to an unending stream of phone and video calls with people who swear he knows them, including an older Ishvalan couple claiming to be his parents, and meets with the neurologist and occupational therapists on his own. But, as promised, Olivier is there when he’s discharged. She smiles for half a moment when she sees him, moving as though to embrace him, but she stops herself. He doesn’t know if she’s remembering the situation or if his scowl has warned her off, but either way he’s glad of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you ready, then?” She’s trying for false cheer, but it isn’t a good look on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose,” he shrugs, “they won’t let me go any other way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” She doesn’t seem to know what else to say. “Shall we go?” Without waiting for his response, she takes off out of the lobby and into the parking lot. Reluctantly, he follows her to a nice, but modest, car climbing into the passenger seat as she settles into the drivers’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s a terrible driver. He considers just jumping out as the car screeches to a halt almost in an intersection. His stomach rolls and he grabs the door handle, but the car is already moving again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you stop earlier?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The light was red the whole time! Why didn’t you stop before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping it would be green by the time I got there! Honestly, Suha-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you not to call me that,” he snarls over her response, “you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserve </span>
  </em>
  <span>to use my sacred name.” She nods, looking unhappy but not fighting him. He shakes his head and turns his eyes back to the road, something she’s apparently not done. “Watch out!” She swerves, narrowly avoiding a car that’s braked to make a turn. “You absolute imbecile!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swears at her in Ishvalan and she falls silent. She drives more carefully, but she seems to have deflated somewhat. He feels a twinge of guilt, but stomps it down forcefully. He doesn’t know what she wants from him, why she’s faking this marriage, but she deserves whatever he can give her in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An absolute bear of a man is standing on the edge of a remarkably unremarkable suburban drive and waves when Olivier begins to slow. He shoots her a look, but she pulls into the drive next to it. Not that it matters, both because it’s a row house, and because the bear turns to call over his shoulder to someone out of sight and bounds over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finally! I’ve been so worried!” The big man embraces Olivier, and starts toward him, hand extended. “I’m glad you’re alright, Su-” he breaks off as Olivier drives an elbow into his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is Buccaneer,” she says in a gentle voice, as though to avoid frightening him, “he’s been our friend for a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, but the anxious way the other two are looking at him does nothing for his memory. Another man appears, presumably responding to Buccaneer’s call. He’s surprised by this man’s appearance, the first Ishvalan he’s seen, since--well, since he can remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, my red-eyed brother,” the other Ishvalan reaches for his hand, and he lets it be taken, “I’m sorry to hear about your injury.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns, but doesn’t fuss as he shakes the other man’s hand, “and who are you?”        </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, right. Sorry, I’m Miles,” the other man smiles easily, “and I hear you don’t want us to use your sacred name anymore? What would you like us to call you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s silent. He wouldn’t mind so much if Miles uses his sacred name, but he doesn’t really care either way, since he’s planning to leave in a few days, anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You used to go by Scar, would you like-?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.” He shrugs, uncaring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Miles smiles again, something he seems to do almost entirely without prompting, “well, Scar, glad to see you home again. We’ll let you get in and settled.” He turns to Olivier, and like Buccaneer, embraces her. “Hey,” he’s speaking softer now, “we’ll be by later with a casserole or something, yeah? And if you need anything, just come on by.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods and Scar follows her inside. “Take a look around, if you want. See if anything jumps out at you, Su-sorry, Scar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jumps out at me?” He’s not sure if he actually thinks the house might be booby trapped or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just mean if it reminds you of anything, but I suppose one of the cats might jump out of you. I’ve put Mini out, though, so she won’t bother you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mini?” He raises a questioning brow. Cats don’t surprise him for some reason, but he’s confused again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you know-” she runs a hand through her hair, looking almost sheepish, “-the dog.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You named your dog </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mini?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>named </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>dog Mini.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mini,” he repeats dumbly, “why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She looks like a miniature version of a dog I had as a teenager.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “That’s fucking stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Olivier’s face shifts, anger crossing swiftly into sadness. “She died the same year we met.” She swallows. “You gave me Mini.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what to say to that. They stand in awkward silence for a moment, and then she nods determinedly. “I’ll just show you around, and you let me know if you remember anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes off without waiting for a response and he follows her around the house. It’s a simplistic place, wood floors, white walls, the works. But, personality has been added in paintings and there are nails on the walls, frames stacked around where she’s ransacked the place for photographs. The sofa has an Ishvalan woven blanket draped over it and there are cacti and succulents on the window ledges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops to look at a painting hanging above the fireplace, a stunning night sky with a pair of joined hands made up of the stars. “Well, we have good taste.” It almost kills him to say ‘we’ but the sooner she believes that he believes her, the sooner she’ll let her guard down and he can make an escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think so?” She sounds irrationally pleased and he shrugs, tearing his eyes away from the painting to shoot her a curious look. She’s smiling, but only a little as though she’s not aware she is doing so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we move on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, smile slipping away. He follows her out into the hall and up the stairs. It’s more of the same upstairs, only carpeted. All doors, but one, are open and he can easily see their bedroom, bathroom, and what appears to be an office. None of them stand out to him as familiar, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember anything, so you can stop looking at me like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry.” Olivier moves away a little, looking uncomfortable. “Oh, there’s Puffin under the bed, there.” She points. “She’ll be excited to see you, I think she could tell something happened.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough a black and white cat pops out from under the bed and trots over, winding around his ankles. He scoops her up without even thinking about and pulls the now-purring creature to his chest. It’s instantly soothing, and he sighs quietly, stroking her soft fur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, he asks, “Puffin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice comes from the other side of the room where she’s rifling through a hamper in the closet, “your idea, not mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes-” she makes a noise of triumph “-there you are, asshole!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” She gives him a confused look over her shoulder. “Oh, not you. Pumpkin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” She straightens and turns so he can see she’s holding a skinny orange striped cat. “Pumpkin? Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again-” she holds the cat out and he takes it one-handed without blinking, holding it up to his chest beside Puffin, “-your idea, not mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You expect me to believe we have two cats and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dog.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Named Mini, Puffin, and Pumpkin?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to believe me, it’s just the truth.” She sounds frustrated and runs her hands through her hair again. “Sorry-” she rubs her face with the heel of her hand, “-I know it isn’t your fault, I just thought this would help somehow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess thinking isn’t your strong suit.” He feels smug satisfaction at the look of hurt and anger that crosses her face. It’s followed quickly by guilt that he pushes aside. He’s not a cruel person, he’s sure, but the whole situation is confusing and overwhelming and, though he doesn’t know how, entirely her fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess not.” She shakes her head, not making eye contact. “I’m, uh, I’m going to go sit out with Mini. You can look around some more.” He watches her leave, and waits for the sound of the back door closing before he carefully deposits the cats on the bed. Pumpkin makes a beeline back to the closet but Puffin follows him around as he begins to explore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens the bedside cupboard closest to the door and finds it has been stocked with everything he would expect a man to keep in it. There’s a bottle of some “masculine” scented lotion and since his hands are dry from the hospital he opts to use it. It actually smells pretty nice and he puts it back, a little disappointed. There’s a flashlight and a book marked halfway through. It’s even in Ishvalan. It’s almost convincing. The condoms and bottle of lube make him shake his head, though. There’s no way he’s in a sexual relationship with an Amestrian, even one as indisputably attractive as Olivier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crosses to the other side and checks her bedside drawer. It’s more of the same, but he’s a little taken aback by the much broader range of sexual </span>
  <em>
    <span>items</span>
  </em>
  <span> inside. He slams the drawer out of sheer surprise. He almost reopens it after a moment, curious, but decides against it. Puffin is still staring up at him with big green cat eyes and he doesn’t feel like she should see the drawer’s contents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back and sees on the wall opposite the bed, something he’d missed: a painting that appears to be by the same artist as the one he’d admired downstairs. This one, though, shows the silhouette of two naked figures, one male and one female, with a shocking amount of detail for being made of stars. He blushes. Even so he crosses to pry the bottom of it up and peek behind it. Disappointingly, there is no wall safe behind it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns and sees Puffin sitting and staring at him. “What?” She meows and he groans. “You shouldn’t even be looking at stuff like this.” She tilts her head. “Don’t look at me like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, he turns away again. He makes his way around the upper floor, opening cupboards and drawers and finding nothing but a facsimile of a life with Olivier. Even when he finds a lockbox in the study, it’s only passports and bank documents in their names. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps out of the study and sets his gaze on the closed door at the end of the hall. He walks toward it, but every step brings a feeling of melancholy that he can’t explain. His fingers close around the knob, but he can’t even bring himself to turn it. Something, somehow, deep inside won’t let him open the door. Disoriented, he heads back downstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>  Olivier is sitting on the back deck, Mini sleeping on her lap. He hesitates only a minute before opening the sliding glass door and joining her. She looks at him over her shoulder, but doesn’t smile. Mini stretches and then jumps to her feet, running toward him, wagging her whole back end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mini, no, he isn’t in the mood-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, girl.” He stoops to pet the dog, who appears to be some kind of miniature cattle dog. She licks him and he rubs behind her ears. “Good girl!” He glances at Olivier who is making an almost sour face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you find anything useful?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He shakes his head, wanting to ask her about the closed room, but finding that he can’t. “Which begs the question, why are you doing all of this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowns, holding her hand out to Mini who is still leaning into his pets. “Doing all of what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This farce.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Farce?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All of this,” he gestures around, “this fake marriage, house, all of it.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stares at him. “Wh-” there’s a vein throbbing in her forehead, “-</span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> would I even do this? You’ve only been in the hospital for thirty-six hours!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Maybe you’re some deranged lunatic who’s just been waiting around for someone to fall into her trap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tch!” She stands up, grabbing Mini and pulling her to her chest, even though the dog is much too large for it. “You are-” she breaks off as a gate in the side fence opens up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles walks through, holding two pots. “Hey guys!” If he notices how uncomfortable they both are, he plays it off easily. “I wanted to make a stew and Buccaneer insisted on stroganoff, so we made both.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Miles.” Olivier sounds a little upset and he glances at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should you be carrying her?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine.” Sure enough, Mini has snuggled up, resting her head on her shoulder and looking like she’s going to fall asleep again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles raises his brows, but nods. “Okay, then.” He smiles brightly at Scar. “Should I take these in or are you guys going to eat out here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Olivier holds out a hand, “I’ll take the stroganoff and go inside. You do what you like.” Miles sets one of the pots on the outdoor table and hurries to open the glass door for Olivier, who is still holding the dog possessively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scar sits alone with the untouched stew well into the night. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Brother, oh brother</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey lovelies,</p>
<p>Here's another chapter for y'all!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He doesn’t recognize the man--Akeem--claiming to be his brother, but there is a sense of warmth and peace about him that he hasn’t felt in the days after his accident, that stirs something in Scar’s chest. Akeem moves in for an embrace and murmurs relieved greetings to him. He has to return the smaller man’s smile, but it falls away when Akeem turns to Olivier, embracing her, too, and calling her sister.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman who Akeem introduces as his wife, Solaris, doesn’t seem any more familiar either, but she hugs him as tightly as she can around her massively pregnant belly before turning to Olivier. The women huddle together and talk in low tones, Solaris wrapping her arm around the blonde and making concerned faces at what appear to be appropriate intervals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Truly, you do not remember me?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He startles at the warm, lilting, speech that he understands and recognises instinctively as Ishvalan. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I do not.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>The words come easily to him, fluid speech he knows without knowing how.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“And Olivier?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“She is a stranger to me.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem smiles sadly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for your both.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“For me, you mean.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scar corrects irritably, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“she’s the scheming one.”  </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem is visibly taken aback. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>She said you have been most disagreeable, but I didn’t really believe it. You love her so much.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“That is impossible.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“There was a time when I would have thought so.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“And now?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem gestures to Solaris, who is guiding Olivier’s hand onto her belly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Amestrian, Ishvalan, it doesn’t matter. Love is love, brother.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar shakes his head and, wanting to change the subject, fumbles for something to say. “When is she due?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In three weeks, can you believe it?” Solaris flashes him a dazzling smile. “It’s just flown by so fast!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier smiles at her, but retracts her hand from her belly. “Suhail-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you not to call me that!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Solaris and Akeem jump, but Olivier is already used to his outbursts. “Right,” she bites her lip, “it’s just habit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem clears his throat uncertainly, and his wife gives him a meaningful head tilt. “I, er, brought photos from when we were kids; want to go look at them?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs, “sure.” He doubts it would help, but the Ishvalan man had such kind and familiar eyes he can’t be angry. He gestures toward the living room, but Akeem seems to know the way unprompted.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worn leather photo album is full of pictures of two happy Ishvalan boys, playing together, going to temple, and beaming up at the camera. Scar doesn’t recognize the photos, but feels a vague warm glow in his chest. He can plainly see the scrawny bespectacled boy in the man beside him and if he squints and imagines the white x-shaped scar on the younger boy’s face he could recognize himself, too. The parents occasionally dotting the pages could well be younger versions of the couple claiming to be his own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Akeem, I don’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright, don’t apologize, my brother.” Akeem squeezes his shoulder. “Do they at least give you any ease?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A little, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Akeem doesn’t seem convinced, but says nothing else. Long silence stretches between them broken only by the quiet voices of the women still chatting in the kitchen. Finally, Akeem speaks again. “Is there anything I can do to help you? I know you’re going through a lot, but you’re angrier than you have been in a long time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m trapped in this house with that who-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem cuts across him sharply, “don’t you dare speak of her so vilely! Olivier is your </span>
  <em>
    <span>wife</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and even if that were not true, she is a good person and deserves to be treated with respect and consideration.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar blinks, taken aback by the sharp rebuke. It seems to him that people care about her to an absurd degree and he doesn’t understand it. “Right. Sorry.” There are a few beats of awkward silence, before he speaks again. “So, tell me about our parents.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smiling, Akeem obliges. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The knock at the glass back door surprises them both, but Olivier calls for the knocker to come in without even peeking out the curtain. It’s Miles who enters and, smiling, beckons Buccaneer in after.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Heard you were here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miles!” Akeem is grinning as he rises to embrace the man, “how are things on your side of the fence?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not so bad,” Miles steps back clapping his shoulder, “Buc has just got a promotion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ishvala be praised!” Akeem steps over to shake his hand, “congratulations!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks! I-er-” Buccaneer splutters abruptly, going red and breaking off, staring at the kitchen doorway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, hello, Big Guy.” Solaris’ voice is laced with humor, and she smirks a little at the man, “I thought we were past this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not when you sneak up on me!” Buccaneer retorts after far too long a pause, causing the group to burst into laughter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar frowns at them all, arms crossed as they go on chattering and laughing together. Buccaneer and Miles ooh and awe appropriately as Solaris rubs her massive belly and talks about the baby. Olivier smiles softly and slips back into the kitchen. Disgruntled, Scar follows her. She opens a cupboard and rattles in it for a few moments before apparently giving up and slumping over the counter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jumps and spins scowling at him. “What do you care?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-” he flounders, “-either these guys are amazing actors or they really care about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They care about you, too.” She steps towards him, face losing some of the guardedness she’s adopted in the face of his recurrent wrath, her hands out to take his and he steps back. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>care about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I--I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She steps forward again, “I more than care about you, I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>mutual, so you can back off!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An awkward silence follows his outburst and she swallows, even as he glances over his shoulder to see the conversation in the other room quickly resuming. “Right. Of course.” Her face closes over again and she turns back to the cupboard, “why don’t you go back out and talk to your brother? I’ll be there in a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His arm is grabbed as soon as he steps back through the doorway and Akeem pulls him out through the glass door their guests had just come in, which is just as well because Solaris is explaining something she’s read about newborn digestion and his stomach already feels off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it, Suhail.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls his arm free, annoyed. “Stop what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being so mean!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Being mean? What, are we five?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You act it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do no such-” catching himself, he drew a deep breath. “I don’t know her, I don’t like her, and I certainly don’t trust her!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you trust me, at least?” Akeem’s voice softens as he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no reason not to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just the same, I have no reason to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem sighs, raising a tattooed arm to run his fingers through his short white hair. “Look, I’d offer to take you in--if only until Mom and Dad could take you--but we’re expecting a baby any day now, I couldn’t do that to Sol, she’s stressed enough as it is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought it was three weeks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“According to the doctor, yes, but babies have minds of their own, you know! Driving up here was going against the doctor’s suggestion anyway, but Olivier was so worried and Solaris convinced me to do it. All this and come to find you being a right brat!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know any of you people!” He slumps against the back wall. “I don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Akeem reaches over and pats his shoulder gently. “I should’ve thought about how frightening and confusing this must all be. If you can be certain of nothing else, please remember I am your brother. I love you very much and I wouldn’t leave you with Olivier if I didn’t believe, with every fiber of my being, that she will do right by you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can I be sure, really, that you are my brother?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“By Ishvala’s mercy, I suppose, Suhail.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have something for you.” Olivier smiles at him over the cardboard box she’s carrying in the door the day after Akeem and Solaris return to Central. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He frowns at her suspiciously. “Think of what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I went by your work,” she explains, setting the box on the dining room table, “and gathered up a box of things you left there. There’s some pictures, letters from your students, your lesson plans and lecture notes, all kinds of stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She seems inordinately pleased with herself when he crosses to the box and peers inside. “It looks like a bunch of junk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s your junk so what’s that say about you then?” Without waiting for an answer she brushes past him, toward the stairs. “It was a bit dusty at the school with it being closed for summer, so I’m going to go shower. You do what you want with the box.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waits until he hears the running shower--a sound he’s very familiar with since first thing in the morning, almost every morning, she sprints into the bathroom and runs the shower, though more than once he’s heard the toilet flush or her clattering around so Ishvala only knows what she’s up to in there--and then starts digging in the box. As promised, there are a number of letters on notebook paper addressed to “Mr. Suhail” and he tries to remember what level he supposedly teaches at. He takes his time sifting through them and then goes back into the box. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s also a mug that says “world’s greatest teacher”, a handful of photos at what look like school events, and a folder of lecture notes. He recognizes his own handwriting on the pages, and the titles of his plans say things like “The Amestris-Ishvalan War” and “Xerxian Influences on Early Amestris” and he gathers he’s meant to have been a history teacher. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever Olivier thought he would get from the box, he doesn’t get. Sure, the letters sound nice, and the notes are in his handwriting, but that’s as fakeable as anything. And, admittedly, as soon as he’d seen “The Historic Significance of the Search for the Philosopher’s Stone” on one of the pages he had immediately known what they had been, bullet point for bullet point. Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been a history teacher, but there were any number of ways she could have worked that out and then produced the box.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes his way up the stairs, carrying the file of notes to read through more carefully for any hints of his actual past self and stops in the door of the bedroom in surprise. Olivier is standing in front of the floor length mirror on the closet door, hair swept up in a towel, examining herself, especially her stomach, where she seems to be carrying a bit of extra weight, critically. She’s also completely naked. He stares at her stunning curves in bewilderment long enough to note a few tattoos on her back, thigh, and even backside. She’s also covered in stretch marks and when she twists slightly her </span>
  <em>
    <span>nipples</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all things glint with jewelry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Admiring your stretch marks?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stiffens, “admiring my ass?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve seen better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you?” She turns to him, crossing her arms, but still making no effort to cover herself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to say something sarcastic, but falls silent as his eyes make their way down her frame and he realizes that it isn’t just her nipples that are pierced, but there’s also a little glittering ring peeking out of the patch of curls at the apex of her thighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not even one nice word, but you’re going to stand there and ogle me? Real classy move.” She pushes past him out of the room, crosses the hall and slams the office door behind her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>   In spite of telling himself that he had, objectively, seen much more attractive women, slender ones with unmarked skin, his pants are suddenly uncomfortably tight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house smells of paint. Upon arriving home from work Olivier had gone straight up into the study and shut herself in with Mini, something that was becoming a habit. His days were long and dull, full of photos and diaries, phone calls and aptitude tests. Supposedly, he’d been a teacher on summer holiday, but honestly he can’t imagine it. The highlight of his day, most days, is harassing Olivier until her calm, patient, demeanor gave way and she snapped at him. He knew it was mean and unnecessary, but venting his frustration at her gave him a few brief minutes of satisfaction that he couldn’t get anywhere else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between Akeem who called at least once a day to check on him, Miles working from home and popping over periodically with a range of contrived excuses, and doctor’s visits he hadn’t been able to take any steps toward escaping from Olivier’s clutches. And, perhaps, though he suppresses the thought as soon as it arises, there is an element of him that fears loneliness more than he hates her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raises a hand and raps on the door. There’s a beat and then a surprised sounding, “come in!” and he pushes the door open. Olivier is cross-legged on her futon, Mini beside her with her head in her lap, and a brush poised over the canvas on an easel that is pulled right up to the edge of the futon. There are little splatters of paint all over the study, including Olivier and the futon she’s been sleeping on since he’d been released from the hospital.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you need something?” He stares at her blankly, trying to remember why he’d knocked. She tilts her head, messy half-bun flopping around. “Or did you have a new insult for me?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you painting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why do you care?” She turns back to it, apparently done with him. Mini stirs and trots the length of the futon to stretch her head out under his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trying to decide if you’re hiding from me or if you enjoy painting.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never hide.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a step into the room, running a hand over Mini’s back as she wiggles and nuzzles his hand. “Seems like you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have made it very clear that you do not enjoy my presence; I am attempting to honor your preference.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, petting Mini’s head absently. Olivier’s whole body is tense, undermining her attempt at indifference. The cats don’t seem to bother her when they come and go between the two, sleeping where they please, but she is possessive of Mini to an almost comic degree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence stretches between them until Olivier swallows thickly and says, “did you have something to say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to go to the neurologist again tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It unsettles him how genuinely concerned she seems, frowning up at him. “What for? Is something wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head, “it’s just a follow up; I thought I had told you already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The vein in her forehead throbs and she looks ready to snarl, but instead exhales slowly, “what time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One-thirty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you planning to get there? You haven’t been cleared to drive yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I assumed you would drive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to be at work, Su-Scar! If you had said something earlier, then I could have done something, but I can’t just take off in the middle of the day on no notice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, I’m not important enough for-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t pull that bullshit on me.” She brandishes a brush at him, purple paint streaking across the floor between them. “I’m doing all the work here, the least you can do is tell me when you need something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s hardly my fault that I can’t go anywhere! I’m the one with a traumatic brain injury, remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment he thought she was going to pick up and throw the entire canvas at him, but she takes a steadying breath and says through gritted teeth, “I never said it was your fault. Let me see if Miles can take you tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.” He pulls at a burr he finds in Mini’s thick fur as she wipes her hands on a cloth and fumbles in her pocket for her phone. “So, what are you painting?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She glares at him over the top of her phone. “I’m not going to do this with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do what?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This.” She drops her phone on the futon and gets to her feet, stomping angrily across the crowded office. “Come on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets himself be pulled by the wrist down the stairs and out the back door. As they near the gate in the side fence he realizes where they’re going. “Olivier-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She raps on the sliding glass door identical to their own and a moment later Buccaneer slides the curtains open, makes a questioning face at them and then opens the door. “You all okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.” Olivier says slightly less sharply than Scar expects. “Is Miles home?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, he’s upstairs in his office. Surely you’re not having a tax emergency at this hour?” The big man laughs slightly and holds up placating hands at Olivier’s angry huff. “I’ll get him down, yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier finally releases Scar’s wrist and makes her way to flop onto the sofa as comfortably as though she lived there. “If you’re going to loom there like a grumpy-gus the least you can do is shut the door behind you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, right.” He closes the door and glances at the stairs. The house is laid out in exactly the same fashion as theirs,  but he supposes that’s to be expected. The mantle is covered in cards and photos and he steps closer to look over them curiously. It seems to be a mix of holiday and thank-you cards and many of the photos feature Buccaneer in scrubs posing with various elderly people and grinning at the camera. Which makes sense, he supposes, given that he had been told Buccaneer worked in a nursing home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey guys, what’s going on?” Miles and Buccaneer are back, and Miles looks just as bemused as Bucccaneer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any chance you can give Scar a ride to the neurologist tomorrow? I have a meeting and </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>neglected to mention his appointment until now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure. When?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One-thirty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles nods, pulling out his phone and tapping away at it. “I have a meeting with a client downtown at 11:30, so if you don’t mind tagging along we could grab lunch after and then go. How’s that sound?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a moment to realize everyone is looking at him expectantly. It sounds horrible, but he’s already caused a scene and is mortified enough to force a crooked smile. “Sounds great.” He doesn’t think the trio looking back at him buys his faux-agreeableness for even a second, but no one calls him on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great!” Miles taps on his phone again. “We were about to order some pizza, want to join us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should really get back to-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonsense!” Buccaneer declares breezily, “we insist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fantastic, it’s settled!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar glances at Olivier, expecting her to be nearing an explosive show of rage, but instead she’s shaking her head, her mouth turned up in a smile. “Will you get pineapple on mine, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, but we’re having baby corn on ours so we won’t complain if you don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fair enough.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your usual good by you, Scar?” Miles smiles at him as if he expects him to actually know what his “usual” is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great!” Miles fidgets with his phone for another minute, then grins. “Pizza’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you get comfortable?” Buccaneer suggests, pointing Scar toward the sofa. He choses an armchair as far from Olivier as he can manage instead. “Do you guys want anything to drink? We have cider, beer, maybe some wi-” he broke off suddenly, “-lemonade! We have some lemonade! That’s fine to, uh, er, mix with your meds, right, Scar?” He is oddly flushed and Miles whacks him in the back for some reason as he goes into the kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe so.” Scar frowns at the veritable giant, confused. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great! Let’s have some lemonade, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of us. Yeah!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to abstain on my account,” Scar tells him, nonplussed. “It doesn’t offend me.” He hesitates. “Did it used to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.” It is Olivier who answers, a soft smile on her face for a brief moment. “This doofus-” she lobs a small pillow at Buccaneer “-is just being awkward because he doesn’t want you to feel left out, since you can’t drink on at least half your meds.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here-” Miles returns with a stack of cups and a few cartons and bottles tucked under his arm, “-cranberry juice, soda, and, as my husband so eloquently pointed out, lemonade.” He deposits the mix on the coffee table and turns to kiss Buccaneer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eew!” Olivier throws a hand dramatically over her eyes and sticks her tongue out, but she’s laughing. “I thought you two were over the PDA thing by now!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never!” Miles says, grabbing the pillow that had bounced off Buccaneer onto the floor and whacking Olivier’s feet--which had migrated up onto the sofa--with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Buccaneer turns redder. “I don’t think it’s technically PDA in our own home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pang of something like longing goes through Scar as Miles and Buccaneer tussle, trying to push each other into the path of Olivier’s pillow-missiles. They’re laughing easily, teasing each other and stealing more kisses, and he feels suddenly that he wants that. Not a husband, but a relationship where laughing and tickling came easily and yelling at each other did not. He glances at Olivier, wondering if she is thinking the same, but she’s picking at some dried paint on her elbow, apparently unconcerned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s work?” Buccaneer asks Olivier when he’s managed to get free of Miles and sits down next to her. Miles perches on the arm of the sofa and pours himself some lemonade. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hellish as ever,” she makes a face, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear</span>
  </em>
  <span> Henschel is trying to drive me to madness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you the one who said, and I quote, ‘employees who are afraid to call you on your bullshit are pointless’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier kicks at Miles’ thigh in response. “Yeah, but it’s gone to his head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you do?” Scar asks, realizing too late that even if no one can fault him for not remembering, it’s been nearly a week, and he hasn’t asked even once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier sits up a little, looking at him in surprise. “I manage the local branch of a medical supplies company.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And she’s damn good at it!” Buccaneer says proudly, trying to cut through the awkwardness in the room. “They’re our main supplier at the nursing home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a nurse, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nurse’s aide, actually. I do hands-on patient care, helping them get around, food, hygiene, that stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” There had been some nurse’s aides at the hospital and he had not envied them their bed-pan cleaning, sheet-changing, and other equally stomach churning tasks.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Buccaneer seems to know what he’s thinking because he says, “it’s actually an awesome job! A lot of patients are in a really vulnerable place and helping them live with dignity makes all the difference in the world. Trust me, when I was in recovery for this-” he gestures to his prosthetic right arm, “-there were some really sucky doctors and nurses, but the ones who cared and made sure I maintained my sense of self and autonomy? Those are the heroes I still look up to today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles pats his shoulder, “you’re amazing, Buc, but if I have to hear your soapbox spiel one more time, I might have to smother you with a pillow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You love me.” Buccaneer retorts, smirking, but doesn’t go on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uncomfortable in the midst of so much open affection, Scar gets to his feet. “Your bathroom’s in the same place as ours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but the sink’s out in the downstairs one, so you’d best go upstairs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he climbs the stairs he hears Olivier offering to look at it for them, and the boys assuring her they had a plumber coming out. Like them, it appears Buccaneer and Miles have chosen the big bedroom to use as their own, and the open door on the right leads into a study that Miles had obviously been working in when they interrupted and the bedroom at the end of the hall also has an open door leading into what looks like a half-way-unpacked home gym. Their hallway walls are lined with art and photos.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his return trip, he steps closer to a painting hanging on the wall outside their bedroom that seems somehow familiar. It’s a portrait of the two men holding hands and beaming at each other, seemingly on their wedding day if their light-colored suits and Miles’ flower crown are any indicator. He knows, somehow, that flowers are precious in Ishval, rare and hard to grow in the climate, and the wedding crowns are symbolic and significant. Buccaneer isn’t wearing one, but flowers are woven into his braid in a facsimile of the tradition. It’s a beautiful painting, and something about the colors and brush strokes reminds him of the star paintings in his alleged home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Took a bit, everything okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar’s face heats at Miles’ casual question, the trio all looking at him curiously. He really gets no privacy, he thinks, annoyed. “Yeah, I was looking at the wedding painting, it’s beautiful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks! We love it, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The style looks like some of the paintings in our house, is it a local artist or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles gives him a weird look, “you could say that. Has Olivier not told you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Told me what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have a paint-splattered wife and tons of original pieces by the same artist in your home. What do you think?” Buccaneer seems amused, but also like he’s trying to hide it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar turns to Olivier who arches her brows at him, but says nothing. “So, that’s why you’re hiding your paintings.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not hiding my paintings; they’re all over the house and you like them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know they were yours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Precisely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ringing of the doorbell saves him the trouble of thinking up a response. Buccaneer practically bounces off the sofa and rushes to answer it and returns in a moment, two pizza boxes in his hands. “Here’s for you two,” he sets one on the coffee table “and this is for us.” He hands the other box to Miles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier digs into the pizza right away and pushes the box toward him across the table. Scar flips it open and frowns. Olivier has taken a slice from what is presumably her half, but his is a cheeseless veggie medley. “What’s this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your usual order,” Miles says around a mouthful of pizza, “I didn’t change anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No way. I wouldn’t order pizza without cheese!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re lactose-intolerant, Su-Scar.” Olivier says gently, almost patronizingly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d know if something like that were true,” he retorts, taking a slice from her half of the pizza.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she says, reaching for the piece, “I don’t think you would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls it out of her reach. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> decision what I eat, not yours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” She sits back, her lips pursed as he takes his first big bite of the gooey, cheesy goodness. “But you remember that when you’re stuck on the toilet all night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, he does. All night long.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Time Bomb</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey lovelies!</p>
<p>This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but what can I say? I need my angst fix.</p>
<p>TW: casual racism &amp; casual homophobia (by an antagonist OC, not the main crew!) and past violence</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dragging his feet to annoy Olivier when she’s on a tight schedule might be satisfying, but Scar is sure to be ready when Miles knocks on the door. The other man, dressed sharply in a suit, beams at him when he opens it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ready?” Scar nods and follows him out. His keys hadn’t been recovered from the wreck, but Miles produces a key of his own and locks the front door. “You guys have one for our place, too.” Miles explains when he notices the confused look Scar is giving him. “For emergencies, and situations like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They cross the small yard separating their drives and Miles mutters “oh shit” under his breath and picks up the pace to his car. Scar stops, looks around, and notices a woman coming up the sidewalk toward them. “It’s Karen from the HOA,” Miles hisses at him as he unlocks the car, “hurry up and get in!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar stays in place, watching the woman coming closer. She’s Amestrian with short bleach-blond hair and big sunglasses. What, he wonders, is Miles afraid she’ll say that he doesn’t want him to hear? Could she possibly hold the key to one of the many mysteries surrounding his and Olivier’s supposed life?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad I caught you!” She says, waving, as she comes closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too late,” Miles mutters, giving Scar the first cross look he’s seen, and turning away to face the woman. “Hello, Karen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just wanted to remind you, I need your dues by the end of the month,” she says breezily, “and-” she turns to Scar, pushing her glasses up onto her head, “-tell your wife that if she writes profanities in the memo line this time I’m going to have to assess additional fees.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, because what else can he do? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, we’ll make sure we get that to you.” Miles says diplomatically. “It was nice of you to come all the way down here to remind us.” He reaches for the handle of the car, but Karen speaks up again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Incidentally, the Rugers are moving, did you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re right across the street from us.” Miles doesn’t even try to smile. “Yes, we noticed.” He adds when Karen gives him a questioning look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have it on good authority they’ll be showing the house starting next week, and as you mentioned they’re right across the street from both of you. And, well,” she claps her hands, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important good neighbors are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure we don’t want any more teens that might egg your house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Karen scowls at Miles’ cheek. “The point is, we want to attract the right kind of family to our neighborhood. To that end, would you and your friend-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Husband.” Miles corrects firmly, his eyes darkening with suppressed rage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what I said. Anyway, if you don’t mind keeping things low-key during any showings and open houses, that would be ideal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Low-key how?” Miles asks, and Scar gets the sense he’s baiting a trap for her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blusters a bit. “You know, close up that pervert-gate between your yards, at least after dark. It’s important to those of us </span>
  <em>
    <span>with children</span>
  </em>
  <span> that this neighborhood remains respectable and anything-” she gestures, seemingly unconsciously, at the two of them, “-that goes against family values is curtailed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar feels a current of pain and anger that he can’t fully explain as Karen looks down her nose at them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Family values?” Miles queries almost-innocently.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We wouldn’t want anyone else with a criminal record, or headed that way. Tattoos, drunks, perverts, and the like.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if I see any tattooed, drinking, perverted felons I’ll be sure to send them to talk to you about the HOA.” Miles opens his car door firmly. “Now, I’m going to be late. Excuse me.” Scar hurries to get in the other side, liking the woman far less than even Olivier. “One of these days,” Miles grits out, backing down the drive, “I’m going to get her to come right out and say she doesn’t want any gay Ishvalans or tribe members in the neighborhood, and then she can say goodbye to her precious HOA board.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar nods, but she’s made him curious. “What was that bit about felons?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Miles says too quickly, “just her bitter ass grasping at straws.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is Olivier a felon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Miles shakes his head, “no, none of us are felons.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But one of us </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>have a criminal record.” Miles groans, uses the distraction of merging onto the busy highway that cuts through North City to buy himself time. But Scar is persistent. “What kind of criminal record?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing serious, okay?” Miles glances at him, cautiously. “There were some unpaid parking tickets and Buc has an underage drinking charge, but that was ages back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Underage records are sealed.” He’s more surprised that Miles, he thinks, that he knows that. “So, Karen wouldn’t know about that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d be surprised what persistent nosiness can uncover.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar sinks further in his seat, thinking it over. The realization feels like a bucket of ice water washing over him. “It’s me, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles inhales slowly. “No convictions, but you were denied bail waiting for an indictment. It was nothing; you didn’t do anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the hell happened, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-” Miles chews his lip, “-look, I’m not the right person for this conversation. Talk to Olivier about it tonight, if you’re dead set on it, okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar glowers at him, but man keeps his eyes stubbornly on the road, refusing to acknowledge his wrath. Downtown North City isn’t the nicest area, industrial wavering on red-light district as far as Scar can tell, but Miles pulls into a garage, swiping a pass card at the gate and begins circling in hopes of finding a spot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My client’s building is just across the street,” he says as he pulls into a spot on the third level. “There’s a coffee on the ground floor. Do you mind waiting for me there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does, but he can’t exactly say so. The coffee shop is nice, at least, and Scar orders coffee, black, not eager to repeat the experience of the night before and finds a little table to sit at while Miles heads for a posh lobby next door. He drinks his coffee and jostles his leg impatiently under the table. He feels like a child and it pisses him off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Seeing others on their phones reminds him that Olivier had given him a smartphone to replace the one damaged in the accident. He pulls it out and powers it up. He’s barely touched the thing, having no one to contact and no files, photos, or past messages to search through for hints of the truth. He hasn’t even chosen a background image to replace the one bearing the carrier’s logo. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s one game preloaded on it and he plays it half-heartedly to pass the time. Miles’ reticence in the car troubled him. The other man had struck him as trustworthy, so his unwillingness to clarify paired with his insistence that Olivier held the answers rankles. Sighing, Scar puts the phone aside, resigning himself to reread the chalkboard menu. Almost immediately, however, he picks the phone back up. The shop’s free wifi information is scrawled on one of the boards and it takes him only two attempts to connect to the network.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An odd hesitation comes over him as he types his own name in the internet search bar. If anything he’s been told is true, this should confirm it, but there was no telling what else he might uncover, good or bad. He takes a deep breath and presses the little magnifying glass in the corner. Headlines pop up on the screen, all seven or eight years old, from varied sources. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ishvalan Extremist Group Implicated in Factory Explosion” one reads, and another, “Seven Apprehended in Connection with Terrorist Plot”. The air is being sucked from the room, the text swimming on the little screen. He clicks on “Local Priest Condemns Factory Attack” because the photo of a troubled-looking Ishvalan priest is easier to stomach than the plumes of smoke and ash-y rubble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We praise and thank Ishvala,” the priest’s statement reads, “that no lives were lost at the Rose Corp. plant, and our prayers go with the injured and their families. This was not an act on behalf of our goddess, who condemns hate, but by mere men who shield their hate in the words of piety-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Miles drops into the seat across from him, grinning, “-I got done early. What’re you thinking for lunch?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Scar drops his phone, shock coursing through him. “I hadn’t gotten that far.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles frowns at him, but doesn’t question it. “Well, we actually have time to hit up Dahlia Dining, if you want?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dahlia Dining?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s an Ishvalan hole-in-the-wall place down by the temple. It’s your favorite,” Miles adds when Scar has no reaction, “they have the best kabobs west of New Ishval.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds delicious,” Scar acquiesce, finding himself with little appetite. He doubts he’ll enjoy anything until he knows why his name is connected with terrorism and factory explosions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s also the only place in town you can get cactus soda,” Miles says grinning at some joke only he remembers, as they head back to the car, “if you want to pick some up for Olivier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Does she like it, or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only when-” Miles hesitates, seeming to remember something, “-she’s in a certain kind of mood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see.” He doesn’t, but he doesn’t press it, his mind elsewhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Miles gets a case of the soda, though he seems no more inclined to drink it than Scar is. A pretty server in traditional garb that doesn’t hide her prosthetic leg suggests, with a twinkle in her eye, that he pick up a gallon jar of pickles to go with it, and Scar hardly notices how flustered that makes Miles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They talk little, not for lack of trying on Miles’ part, and finally Scar is alone again with his thoughts, an adjusted prescription, and the stupidly-named animals.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier stops in the study doorway when she sees him hunched over the desktop computer. “What are you-?” She steps behind him and catches sight of the screen. “Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is this?” He demands turning toward her and gesturing at the news footage of the smoldering factory on the screen. “How is this connected to me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sits down slowly on the futon, reaching for his hand, but he refuses to let her take it. “It was a strike to protest the factory refusing to close for the Ishvalan high Holy Days, even though its workers were 90% Ishvalan. The Amestrian ten percent was all in leadership. You were vocal in the protests, and the strike, and after the bombing you were picked up as a possible instigator. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>weren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>and eventually, they had to let you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at her. His head is throbbing. “Why would they choose me out of the hundreds of strikers?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> She sighs, “Su-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t!” Mini whines at his outburst, tucking herself against Olivier’s side. He leans down to scratch behind her ears in apology, which she accepts readily, leaning into his pets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were there.” Olivier says at last. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up from petting Mini. “So were a lot of people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you find any photos of yourself from the strike?” She looks pained as he shakes his head. “I didn’t think so.” She rises and reaches for the keyboard, “may I?” He leans out of her way as she types, her hair hanging in his face. Even in his angry, bewildered, near-panicked state he finds something soothing about the mint and lavender scents wafting from the golden locks. “Here you are-” she leans back again, gesturing to the screen, “-before the explosion.” He sees himself, holding a sign that says “Closing for Unification Day and not Eluhalia is discrimination!” It’s a bit verbose, but his eyes are drawn from it to his unmarked face regardless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Olivier sighs again as she tabs the slideshow from “East City Times” over a page. “And this is you, when you were arrested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wouldn’t have recognized this photo without her telling him, no matter how long he looked. His face is wrapped in bandages, tiny holes left for his eyes and nose. His lower jaw and mouth are exposed, but bruised and swollen. He could only imagine--because he certainly could not remember--what the rest of his face must have looked like. Unconsciously, he reaches for the criss-cross scar on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A long silence lapses, until Olivier says heavily, “the only other people injured were a manager who was in the building at the time and first responders.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The person who set the bomb would have been closest to it.” He realizes slowly, his stomach roiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was the thinking.” She reaches across him again and closes the article. “But they were wrong; it was a remote detonation. Your name was cleared entirely after the manager testified at your indictment that you were injured trying to get them out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know if he believes her or not. She can obviously tell, because she steps back and recites softly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“what Ishvala wills is not for men to know, or question, instead seek her mercy and with love be guided to her blessings.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your accent is terrible,” he tells her around the lump suddenly in his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For some reason, this makes her smile faintly. “That sounds more like you. I’m just relieved I didn’t suggest Ishvala would guide you to prostitutes. I did that once and your parents couldn’t decide if they should laugh or yell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts slightly, “those words do sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>slightly </span>
  </em>
  <span>similar to the untrained ear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I recall that being said, too.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> recalls that he hates her and doesn’t return her smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to walk Mini before dinner,” she decides, reaching for the dog who is already spinning in excited circles, wagging her backend. “I suppose you’re not interested in joining us?” He lets his glare speak for him and she sighs once more. “At least get away from the internet somehow, you’ll find nothing but pain and hate down that rabbit hole.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks, but doesn’t say aloud, that perhaps he’ll find more of what she's hiding. Silence falls after Mini’s happy clatter makes its way down stairs and out the door. He turns back to the computer, opening the browser again. He finds the slideshow again, and flips through images of those arrested during the protests, strike, and following the bombing. There are many like him, with their signs and anger, red eyes and frustration. He finds many poignant signs about the factory that employed so many Ishvalans and let none of them into their high-paying leadership positions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you want me to see this?” He wonders aloud as he clicks onto another article and another slideshow. There’s no reason he can see that she would want to hide this, except perhaps if she thought she could bring him around to a more pro-Amestris viewpoint somehow. Another click brings the answer in a rush of understanding that brings with it pain and swelling emotions he cannot name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rose Corp. Heiress Among Wounded” the title read, the photo depicting a gurney being loaded into an ambulance against a backdrop of the smoldering hole in the wall of the factory and the bright many-colored lights of the emergency crews. The bomb had detonated on an upper level, where the administration offices were. Where the manager Olivier had spoken of must have been. The prone figure was largely obscured by the emergency workers around her, but spread across the white pillow, and streaked with dark blood, was a golden mane that he knows instantly smelled of mint and lavender. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finds the explanation in a single word pulsing in his mind: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Revenge.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading!</p>
<p>I treasure all comments and kudos, so please leave some if you enjoyed this chapter! (Or if you kinda hated it, but need to know what happens next.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In this House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey lovelies!</p><p>Another chapter for you all. :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Olivier sighs and kicks a rock in the path. Mini lunges for it, thinking she’s spotted a critter and is disappointed when she realizes it isn’t. Suhail has always had a capacity for assholeishness, and she knows it better than most, but this new level of vitriol is the undoing of eight years of knowing each other. In one day, she’d lost the husband who woke up early on his summer vacation just to eat breakfast with her and kiss her before she went to work, and gotten back this sour, hateful, man instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She could deal with his insults and vitriol, worse had been said about and to her, but she couldn’t convince herself it didn’t hurt when it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did.</span>
  </em>
  <span> There were good days and bad days in their marriage, as with any, but largely they were stronger together, taking on the hard things life threw at them with their arms around each other. And she needed those strong arms around her now, just as much as he needed her smaller, but no weaker, ones around him. Keeping her distance when he was hurting so much was so painful she could barely stand it, but she would because she had to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d taken the long neighborhood walking trail to give Suhail time to process what she’d told him and what he’d read, but still something feels off as she makes her way back up their empty drive and into the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scar?” She calls as she kicks off her shoes, and unclips Mini’s leash. There’s no response, but these days that means almost nothing. The bedroom door is closed and she knocks on it. “Are you okay?” Silence. Frowning, she tries the handle. The room is empty and her heart beats faster. “Suhail?” Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’s in the yard at the boys’, she reasons, stepping into the study. The computer is still on and when she sees what he’d been looking at, her heart stops beating entirely for a moment, leaping into her throat instead. She takes the stairs two at a time, nearly slipping in her socked feet. Like a lightning bolt, the realization strikes her. The car was gone. Suhail’s had been totalled in the accident, but hers should have been in the drive where she left it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> She pounds on the wall their living room shares with the boys’ kitchen as she runs past, and when she makes it outside, Miles, an apron around his waist, is opening their front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen Suhail?” She demands before he can say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles shakes his head. “What’s wro-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s gone! My car, too. I need to borrow yours please. I need to find him!”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at her, and then calls over his shoulder, “Buc! Get down here!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your keys!” She insists as the man begins untying the apron. “I need them, hurry!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buccaneer appears in the door, still wearing his scrubs from work, his hair undone. “What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suhail’s missing,” Miles fills in, “I need you to stay here, call the shelters, Akeem, his parents, anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buccaneer doesn’t question, only nods seriously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great,” Olivier breathes impatiently, “I’ll take your car, then, and Miles can take his and we’ll cover more ground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Miles reaches for his keys, which are hanging beside the door. “You’re in no state to drive, we’ll go together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you hear me? We can cover more ground if-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not even wearing shoes.” Miles interjects, giving her a no-nonsense stare. “You can come with me, or stay with Buccaneer, but you’re not driving and that’s final.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks imploringly to Buccaneer, but he crosses his arms, standing in silent solidarity with his husband. They’d be adorable if they weren’t in her way. “Fine, but let’s go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is about the factory isn’t it?” Miles asks as soon as they’re down the drive and on their way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, how did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Karen caught us as we were leaving and wouldn’t shut up about the kind of neighbors she wants to replace the Rugers, or rather the kind she doesn’t want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so you told him about the bombing?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, of course not!” Miles reaches one hand over to squeeze her arm gently. “He realized he was the one she meant with her snide criminal record remarks. I told him to talk to you, I didn’t know what else to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He knows it was my fault he got hurt, and he already doesn’t trust me. If he wants to disappear for good-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t focus on that,” Miles instructs gently, “focus on looking for him. I know you don’t get off work until five, so he can’t have that much of a headstart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s already almost seven, I took Mini out at six, he could be halfway to Drachma by now!” She was panicking to a degree she normally never did, and she knew Miles measured responses were more logical, but that didn’t stop the swirling terror from rising in her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not exactly going to make it through the border, even if he is headed that way. Try to think, where he might actually have gone. Places he’s been enough to go on autopilot, or that you’ve taken him since the accident?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Olivier runs a hand through her hair. “The school maybe? He’s been to the doctor’s since the accident, but I can’t imagine he’d want to go there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s try the school, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s closed for the summer, even if he went there, he’s not there now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, maybe not. If he did go there, maybe he saw somewhere on the way to try next.” Miles changes lanes, and signals the turn to start toward the school. There’s a clattering in the back seat as he turns tightly. Olivier glances back to see if anything’s broken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that cactus soda?” Her mouth is watering at the sight of the green bottle as if this is the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, go ahead and take one, I was going to have Suhail give them to you, but then I thought he might just drop them in the trash.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorts, “he probably would have.” She’s reaching into the back to grab one of the bottles when Miles gasps. “What?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know where he went!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dahlia’s?” She frowns at him as she twists open the soda.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, the temple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes only a moment of consideration for her to acknowledge that that makes sense and he’s changing course again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s your car!” Miles points as they pull into the nearly-empty temple parking lot. She’s out of the car and bounding toward the door before he’s even gotten the keys out of the ignition, but he hurries to catch up to her in the temple anteroom. The anteroom is empty, but they can see light under the door to the main temple. Miles stops to peel off his shoes and shove them in a cubby, but Olivier, already shoeless, opens the carved wood door. “Wait, Olivier, your hair!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hissed admonition is unheeded and he has to hurry to catch the door before it closes behind her. A priest is moving toward them, and at the front of the room they can see Suhail seated on a low cushion, his head bowed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mrs. Kaswara,” the priest greets quietly, “I thought we’d be seeing you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleric,” she begins equally quietly, “I’m sorry to barge in, but Suhail’s been in an accident and he’s not himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cleric waves away her apology, “Ishvala accepts all seekers. We were all very sorry to hear of his accident, and glad that he came to us for help now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate that, I do, but I’ve just come to bring him home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Well, there is some difficulty then.” The cleric, Xander, she thinks, the one who lingers at Dahlia Dining because choosing between his goddess and his earthly love had not been easy, gestures out to the anteroom. They go, but her stomach is taut with nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Difficulty?” She repeats as soon as he has carefully closed the door behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has taken a vow of service and reflection here in the temple.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels Miles’ steadying hand on her shoulder, though she does not need it. “For how long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three days,” the cleric smiles at her gently, “he wanted longer, but under the present circumstances we did not feel it was Ishvala’s will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escapes her. Miles’ hand remains, rubbing her upper back soothingly. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ishvala Eluhad.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The cleric tips his hands toward the heavens, still smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I speak to him?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cleric thinks a moment, “I do not see why not, but his vow includes silence; he cannot answer you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine with me.” She turns to the door again and takes a deep breath. It feels heavier than it had a moment ago when she opens it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hears the cleric addressing Miles as she walks through. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here since </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eluhalia,</span>
  </em>
  <span> brother.” The closing door cuts off Miles’ undoubtedly awkward response. The many-colored woven rug beneath her feet muffles her steps, but Suhail doesn’t seem surprised when she takes the cushion that had been occupied by the priest minutes before. She matches his cross-legged pose and their knees are nearly touching when he finally raises his head to look at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is pain, anger, and confusion in his face and it stabs at her heart just as it had the first time she’d seen the look in the hospital, and every time since. “Hello, Suhail.” His nostrils flare, but he can say nothing and she closes her eyes a moment to relish the feeling of saying her husband’s name without being berated. “You scared me half to death, you bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She should probably feel at least a little guilty swearing in a house of a goddess, but she’s just glad to be able to speak her mind. “I love you, and deep down, you know it. There is no way I could have faked all of this, and you’re only hurting yourself by clinging to the idea I did. If I could have traded places with you-” she breaks off, realizing with a guilty start she couldn’t even entertain the idea of putting him through that reversed scenario. The loss and pain would be too great for him, given that it was bordering on soul-destroying for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re scared, I know it hurts. I’m scared, too, Suhail, seeing you in this much pain, so much hurt and confusion. I know you don’t believe my actions are for your own good, but how can I tell you every hard and painful thing that we have been through? That has caused you pain, when already you are suffering? You would not have believed if I had tried to tell you, and it would only be more reason for you to hate me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suhail looks away and she reaches to cup his face, gently turning him back to face her. She usually hides her tears, but as they well up in her eyes she forces him to see them. “I’m sorry, for everything, I am. But I cannot undo the past, and some things are better left there. Maybe this is your second chance, a fresh start free from the pain of the past. Stop digging into it, Suhail. It is done, leave it there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> His lips part, but she shakes her head, “your vow.” She wipes her eyes before the tears can escape them. “You were wounded, yes, but you did no wrong. If nothing else, believe that.” His face wrinkles when she leans in to kiss his forehead. “I love you, you damn moron.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at her in silence and she sighs, leaning back. “Three days from now, I’ll be back here to take you home, but until then, do what you must. Now,” she gets up slowly, reluctantly, “I had better go rescue Miles from the forces of piety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suhail grabs her hand as she moves to pass him, and she turns to him, her heart leaping. He frowns, puzzled by his own actions, but slips his hand into his pocket and produces the keys he’d taken from their kitchen table earlier. Slowly, he presses them into her hand. Her eyes prick again, and a lump rises in her throat. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles looks at her like she’s saved him certain death when she steps back into the anteroom, though the cleric is smiling mildly at him.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is your soul eased?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit.” She raises the keys and jangles them pointedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you kill him?” Miles asks, sounding only slightly like he thinks she might have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” she smiles slightly, “but I was tempted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll expect to see you at the end of our five o’clock prayers in three days, then.” The cleric smiles at them, “though of course you are both welcome to join us before then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Olivier turns to the door, but is stopped once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One thing,” the priest says, firmly but not unkindly, “Ishvala understands our reasons, but those who carry her blessings ought to show they are covered by them in her house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand goes to her uncovered hair, “of course, I apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need, though I take it Suhail does not know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs, though the gesture is anything but careless. “Not anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scar rolls over on the sleeping mat again, trying to get comfortable. Not that one who has taken a vow of service to Ishvala ought to be too comfortable, but he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t sleep before his three days of grueling labor and prayer. Questions burn in his mind, but his phone, along with everything he’d brought or worn into the temple, is locked in the Head Cleric’s office to be returned when his vows are fulfilled. Cleric Xander had greeted him warmly, as though he’d known him, and spoken familiarly. He could trust a priest, surely, not to lie to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is still in the twilight between waking and sleeping when the door to his small room opens. A novitiate who looks no more awake than he feels, leans in. “Time for morning prayers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a small group of novices and priests who gather in the temple’s main room for prayers, which is hardly surprising given the small number of Ishvalans living in North City. Scar joins their circle, but is skipped over in the traditional order with a murmur about his vow of silent service. After the prayers and a meal in the temple kitchen, he’s given the task of taking out the rugs from the temple and beating them in the courtyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s mindless, repetitive, work that has him and the novices he shares it with coughing through the bandanas they’ve tied around their mouths and noses. Still, he’s grateful for the exertion; the other novices are scrubbing up the breakfast dishes and the clerics are compiling the requests for aid from the community and deciding who will help with each task and how.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only wishes the novices were bound by similar vows as they chatter around him, swapping gossip about the other novices and sharing stories from their old lives. Their lives sound simple, pleasant, compared to the little he knows of his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Documents could be forged, photos manipulated, and a few persuaded to lie, but news articles he’d found on his own from eight years before? And a temple of clerics? Unless Olivier had influence and money of a scale he couldn’t imagine, he had to be who she said. He had been manipulated into marrying her, perhaps, or else coerced, there could be no other explanation as to why they were together. He can bear her presence a little longer while he gets to the bottom of this mystery, unless, somehow, the solution comes to him in the next three days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buccaneer rubs his husband’s shoulders, easing some of the tension in them, both of them watching Olivier pacing on the back deck, talking with Akeem on the phone. Miles had persuaded her to stay and eat with them, but she’s been taking and making phone calls practically non-stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think she’s going to be okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles leans into his massaging hands, sighing quietly. “As long as he doesn’t pull another stunt like this, I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The stress she’s under worries me,” Buccaneer admits, watching her run a hand through her hair, “after, well-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time,” Miles supplies, “you’d think they’d get one damn good thing in their lives. You should have heard the cleric going on about Ishvala’s blessings, I know Suhail’s very devout, but what blessings has she given them so far?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Buccaneer stops his massaging to pull him close to his chest, his arms wrapping around him and his head coming to rest on his shoulder. “If you think about, just a safe place to go right now is, well, I don’t know about a blessing but pretty fortunate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles snorts, but says nothing as Olivier hangs up the phone and makes her way back in through the sliding glass door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now,” she sighs, “is it terrible to wish Solaris would hurry up and have her baby so Haleema and Abed could come out to talk some sense into Suhail? It’s almost too bad they’re so organized. If they hadn’t already bought the train tickets to go and see Akeem and everyone in central, they could have rushed out here and gone south again when the baby comes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The real problem is that travel is so expensive,” Miles remarks, deliberately steering away from the family dynamic, “if it were more affordable, they could make two trips.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, letting it drop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come eat,” Buccaneer nudges, “your food is getting cold.” He sits on one side of her, Miles taking the other, as she settles on the sofa and starts inhaling her food. “Are you going to be okay on your own until he gets back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives him a look that could melt iron, “I’ll be fine. I’m going to sleep in our bed again-- the futon is killing my back--and eat all the dairy I want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He ousted you from your bed? I thought for sure it’d go the other way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping it would help him to wake up in his own bed, and besides all of my paints and supplies are in the office. He doesn’t really need in there with school out of session, it just made more sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, our guest bed is free for the taking if you ever need a break from the futon,” Miles offers unhesitating. Buccaneer nods his agreement just as readily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” she smiles slightly, “I’m sure I’ll be fine, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that changes, you come right on over, okay?” Buccaneer presses, wanting to be sure she won’t hold back if she needs them for anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” She leans forward to put her now-empty plate on the coffee table and groans. “I do have one favor to ask, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, what can we do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That shoulder rub you were giving Miles--can I have one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles chuckles, “I’ll take a second after you’re done with hers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up.” Shaking his head at him, Buccaneer gathers her hair out of the way and starts working on the tight knots in her shoulders. “Anything for you, my queen,” he teases, though they all know he means it; they’d do anything for her or Suhail, just as she and Suhail would do anything for him and Miles. They’ve never cared what others think, their small family looks after each other no matter what.  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for reading!</p><p>If you liked it, or at least didn't hate it please consider leaving a comment or some kudos. It means the world to me. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. In the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello lovelies!</p>
<p>Guess who's not dead? :)</p>
<p>Happy reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Scar closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and tries to meditate. The head cleric and the assembled temple-goers are engaging in a call-and-response chant to guide their meditation, but he can’t focus. After three days, he would have thought he would be better at meditating, but all he can think about is how much he hates being in the temple. The floor is hard and cold, the days long, and the novices infuriating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As unfathomable as it might be, he misses the quiet of Olivier’s home while she’s at work and the cuddly company of Mini and the cats. The temple is never truly quiet, people coming and going at all hours for prayers and confessions, and the clerics and novices filling their downtime with endless chatter. And, though he cannot answer them, they have even taken to talking to him as if he cares. It’s a little shocking, though somehow not entirely surprising, how readily they tell him that if they had a woman like Olivier they would have never found their way into temple service. </span>
</p>
<p><span>“Such beauty Ishvala rarely bestows on her creatures,” Head Cleric Everett had said at breakfast when one of the novices had joked that he would be praying with one eye open to watch for Olivier’s arrival that evening. </span><span><br/></span> <span>Only Xander’s faint nose wrinkle had indicated anyone besides Suhail was uncomfortable with the phrasing. Technically, all living things could be classified as “Ishvala’s creatures” but referring to humans in such a way had fallen out of favor when Suhail’s father, Abed, was a young man. Somehow he doubted that the old cleric would call any of the assembled men “creatures”.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>He told himself that he wasn’t offended on Olivier’s behalf particularly, but rather for all women generally. After all, when he noticed several of the clerics and novices eyeing the pretty waitress who had advised Miles to buy pickles for his soda while she was volunteering in the temple kitchen, he had felt deeply uncomfortable. He’d been powerless to say anything, and he had sensed deep down that none would have listened had he been able to try.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chanting was reaching its peak and he fixed his gaze on the tapestry behind Cleric Everett trying to feel some sense of divine will for his life. By the end of the service he would be expected to decide if he wanted to renew his vow or return home. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Home.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Could he really consider the Amestrian woman’s house his home? Unbidden, a memory of lavender and mint stirs a warm feeling in his chest. Was this Ishvala’s guidance or a figment of his imagination?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worshippers fall silent as the priests rise, singing Ishvala’s blessings over them, walking the rows of cushions slowly, touching the bowed heads or shoulders of the faithful as they go. Suhail feels the hand gently brushing his shoulder as a cleric passes, unseen, behind him and knows suddenly, clearly, that this is not where he’s meant to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him many long moments to stand and the anteroom is filled with chattering as people greet one another and catch up following the service. He doesn’t see Olivier anywhere, which surprises him, but one of the novices comes up to him and whispers that he is to go to the Head Cleric’s office. Once he’s made his way there, he sees Olivier sitting before the big wooden desk, Everett in his chair across from her and feels suddenly that he doesn’t like the idea of him being alone with her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Suhail, come in.” Everett waves him in and he sits in the chair beside Olivier who smiles softly at him. He doesn’t return it. “Your lovely wife and I were just discussing what would happen if you feel compelled to remain in Temple service.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods silently and then remembers he’s now free to speak and they are both looking at him expectantly. His voice is raspy from disuse, but not painful. “I have meditated on the will of Ishvala, and I believe it is for me to return to my house and my wife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Olivier’s breath catch beside him, but doesn’t look over. Everett smiles, gestures benevolently. “I also feel that is her will for you, my son. I am pleased she has made her desire known to both of us. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ishvala Eluhad.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ishvala Eluhad,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Suhail echoes almost on reflex.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then go in peace, blessed child of Ishvala.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And peace go also with you.” He recites, getting to his feet. They don’t stop and speak to anyone on their way out, though a few people try to catch his eye. He’s exhausted and slouches in the passenger seat of Olivier’s car as soon as they reach it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am so happy you’re coming home, Su-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t.” He doesn’t quite snap, he doesn’t have the energy, but he is firm. “It isn’t anything to do with you, it’s just that the bed is nicer than the temple floor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.” She puts the key in the ignition, but doesn’t turn it. “When your parents come, do you want to go home with them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If they really are my parents,” he retorts coolly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who else’s would they be, you ass?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actors,” he suggests, knowing how stupid it sounds even before she snorts derisively. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tch! If I had that kind of money you think I’d use it to trick your miserable ass?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifts in his seat to glare out the window until, with a resigned sigh, she finally starts the car and begins driving home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, it’s your Uncle Suhail!” Haleema, his alleged mother, is holding a phone up to the newborn who could care less. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, he’s beautiful!” Olivier leans on his shoulder to coo over the phone and he resists the urge to pull away suddenly and send her crashing to the ground. “How is Solaris?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exhausted, but happy!” Solaris’ voice comes faintly from off-screen and the picture runs blurrily together as Haleema attempts to turn the phone and show Solaris. Even Suhail knows she can flip the camera from front-facing, but he thinks that trying to explain this will be more hassle than just letting her fumble. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, Mom.” Akeem takes the phone, easily showing himself and Solaris, the latter laying in a hospital bed looking uncharacteristically unkempt. “She did </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he gushes, and Solaris hits his shoulder lightly in an oh-stop-it gesture. “And Emry is so beautiful! I’ve never seen a more handsome baby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s lovely. Congratulations, you two!” Olivier smiles at them and then pushes off his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He has Solaris’ nose, don’t you think?” Akeem hops up and repositions the phone to show Emry who is still nestled in Haleema’s arms. “He doesn’t have much hair, but it looks dark. What do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uhm.” Emry looks exactly like every other baby he has--probably--seen in his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He has your eyes,” Abed’s deep voice rumbles from somewhere out of view. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Akeem makes a slight face, covering it quickly with one of his characteristic bright smiles,  “yup, but he’d be beautiful either way!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suhail watches them going back and forth, cooing over Emry and praising Solaris with a sense of detached and mild interest. He can hear Olivier moving around upstairs, and notices that though he has heard Abed speaking, he has not moved into view or held Emry. That’s significant, he thinks, though he’s not sure why. When Solaris announces she’s tired and needs to feed Emry, he says his goodbyes and gratefully hangs up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking upstairs, he finds the study door open. Olivier is sitting on the futon, holding what looks like a small photo or postcard. He can’t see her face under the veil of her hair, but something about the way she’s holding herself, so still and so focused on whatever paper is resting on her palms gives him pause.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jumps slightly, tucking the photo into her jacket pocket. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You seem rather unhappy about the birth of your nephew--if he is your nephew.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not unhappy, just letting all of you enjoy the moment as a family.” She stands, crossing her arms and turning to face him. “Maybe if you spent more time connecting to your family and less harassing me, you’d be feeling better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t we have kids?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s the natural next step isn’t it? In this storyline that you’ve concocted, that comes next, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her face shifts through expressions he can’t name, blood draining rapidly, before it settles on rage. “Get out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks, wrong-footed. “Of the house, or-?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said, get the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She slams the door and he’s left staring at it, wondering what had just transpired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Her smile is the first thing he notices, her face growing closer to his and her long hair falling around him and tickling his neck. He can feel a smile pulling at his scarred face, his hand sliding up the impossibly soft--bare--skin from her hip to her breast. “What happened to ‘just wanting to sleep’?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I said I wanted to go to </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed,</span>
  <em>
    <span> not that I wanted to sleep.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He laughs quietly, “you are devious, my love.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>She laughs, throwing back her head, turning her pale throat toward the bright glow of the moon. He wants to kiss her, so he cups the back of her head, bringing her near to press his lips against the smiling curve of full lips. Her eyes, when they meet his, are black, black like the night, like plumes of acrid smoke, like the abyss, growing and growing until he’s drowning in  an inky sea. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a sudden light, bright and searing, brighter than the moon, brighter than the sun, brighter even than her smile. He screws up his eyes, tries to shield his face as hot light rips past him, rips through him. In a heartbeat, an eternal instant, he realizes it’s the mushroom cloud of an explosion. He screams for her, shouts her name into the bright nothingness. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Suhail,” Olivier's voice is so quiet, so soft, and he whirls to find the source. She’s sitting in a hospital bed, he thinks, though she’s clouded in a shimmer like a heatwave that distorts all her features. “Just look, Suhail. Please, just one look.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “Yes,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize, or can’t remember, a male voice, “just one look.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He turns again, and sees a figure shrouded in darkness. He steps closer to it, squinting as the figure morphs and his own face comes into view. His heart leaps as a gaping wound widens on his face, consuming his head in a bloody mess.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suhail!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jerks upright in bed, flailing at the hands shaking his shoulder. The bedroom swims into view, cool and clean, and he pants, scooting away from the interloper he recognizes now as Olivier. “Wha-?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You were having a nightmare,” she explains gently. Her face is creased with worry, her hair staticy and sticking up. “Are you alright?” She extends a hand as if to touch his shoulder again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” He pulls away before her fingers can touch him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was it about? Anything that-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“None of your business!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was just wondering if maybe you remembered anything that you’d forgotten. From before, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something you don’t want me to remember?”</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She scowled at him, crossing her arms over her oversized t-shirt. “You don’t have to be an ass all the time. I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>worried</span>
  </em>
  <span> about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well don’t.” Scar swipes at the sweat on his forehead and grabs the glass of water he’s been keeping on the night table. Drinking it gives him time to think, slow his breathing and cool down. “I don’t need or want you to worry about me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t help it; whether you like it or not, you’re my husband and I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glares at her and she glares back. “I should have stayed at the temple.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why didn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-” his breath catches, “-the floor wasn’t comfortable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her brows knit. “I see.” There is a long moment of silence, before she turns toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to sleep, then.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches her bare legs in the halflight, mesmerized by the silvery lines of long-healed scars moving and stretching with every step. “Olivier, wait.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hand is on the door handle when she stops, looking back at him, perplexed. She says nothing, watching him silently and waiting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m-” he hesitates, looks away, draws a breath, “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long silence, broken finally by Olivier clearing her throat. “For what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The silence returns, stretching over the room like a fog. Suhail studies the patterns on his blanket, waiting for something unknown. The bedroom door clicks closed softly and he’s alone again. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Please drop me a comment or kudos (or both) if you enjoyed it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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